


your name like a song (i sing to myself)

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: The words came out of Quentin’s mouth without a single coherent thought behind them.“I’m just about to catch a movie with my boyfriend!”ORThe one where Quentin and Eliot pretend to be boyfriends in a post-Monster world. Only they're basically boyfriends already. It is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 46
Kudos: 201





	your name like a song (i sing to myself)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> This fic was written for the wonderful Courtney for round two of #NotAloneHere. This is the second of three fics I will be posting for this round. Courtney requested something lighter with feelings and... here we are with what is somehow my first foray into Queliot fake dating. This was another fun little detour from my current long fic, and I hope y'all find it as delightful to read as it was for me to write.
> 
> Takes place sometime post-season 4. Just assume when reading that Quentin never died and therefore did not need to be resurrected, and also that Quentin never got back together with Alice. Enjoy!

The words came out of Quentin’s mouth without a single coherent thought behind them.

“I’m just about to catch a movie with my boyfriend!”

There, outside the coffee shop on Eighth Avenue, Quentin’s maybe-friend from high school whose name he couldn’t even remember shot him a wide-mouthed grin. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she said. “Which movie? My wife Danielle and I don’t have any plans for the afternoon and we’d love to tag along. Isn’t that right sweetie?”

Nameless High School Friend whipped her head around. Several feet away, a pretty blonde stood pecking at the screen of her phone. “What’s that, honey bunch?” she said, fingers working at a hundred thousand words per second as pedestrians swerved around her oblivious form.

“A movie, my love,” said Seriously Who The Fuck Are You. “With my old friend Quentin and his boyfriend.”

Danielle’s eyes shot up for a fraction of a second. “Sounds great, pumpkin,” she said, her attention immediately going back to her screen.

Eliot was still inside the coffee shop. Quentin could see him through the storefront window, chatting it up with the very attractive barista behind the counter. Laughing, grinning, lingering just a little too long when something passed between their hands...

Heat flared brightly in Quentin’s chest as he forced himself to look away.

“Don’t mind her,” said Woman Quentin Ostensibly Attended High School With. “Total workaholic—well, you know how it goes, I’m sure.” She offered a laugh so high and pretty it had to be forced. “What is it you and your boy—oh!” Suddenly, her face lit up, eyes tracking up over Quentin’s head. “This must be him!”

Quentin’s stomach dropped clean down through the sidewalk. The heat of Eliot beside him was immediate. A hand pressing to the middle of his back. They touched so infrequently these days it was maddening, instantly sending Quentin’s body through the five stages of grief and/or arousal.

“Um—” Quentin turned his face upward, giving himself over to the blissful blankness that preceded making a terrible decision. This was no time for minor inconveniences like being cursed with a brain. He went up on his toes, crashing himself in the general direction of Eliot’s mouth and pecking him on the lips. Awkward, poorly aimed, good enough. “Hi… babe, um…”

He pulled away, pressed his shoes flat to the solid ground. Breathed, panicked. For a moment everything bent sideways, and Quentin was certain he was going to pass out.

Eliot’s eyebrows suddenly occupied the space generally reserved for his hairline. “Hi… darling?”

“Hi, um—Eliot, this is, uh—” Brain suddenly kicking into overdrive, Quentin’s gaze bounced between Eliot and What’s Her Name From High School. “We went to, um—”

“Eliot! It’s so lovely to meet you!” One well-manicured hand was suddenly thrusting forward and forcing its way into Eliot’s grasp. “Jasmine. Quentin here was just telling me all about you two love birds and your big plans for the afternoon. I hope you don’t mind if my wife and I tag along?”

Jasmine! God. Yes. Of course. Quentin let the relief wash over him for a fraction of a second before remembering the shit show he’d gone and made himself the star of. All for the sake not having to play catch-up over drinks with someone he may or may not have gone to school with. Only to have her insist on tagging along on his made up date with his definitely-not-boyfriend. Only to have Eliot— 

Fuck.

“Our… big plans. Yes. Of course.” Eliot slowly retreated from the handshake. “Darling, what did you—”

Quentin let a laugh break out of his chest, sounding just the side of manic. “Oh, um—she just means our movie date... sweetie pie, um—” He pleaded in Eliot’s direction with his eyes. “But then I remembered we, uh—we have that other thing, right? The uh—the thing… with your mom? The fitting for the, uh—thing…”

“Right…” Eliot said with a little tip of his head, curling an arm possessively around Quentin’s shoulders, tugging him close. “We wouldn’t dream of missing the thing. With my mom. Very important fitting thing. With my darling mother whom I adore.”

Jasmine looked between them, her bright smile faltering long enough to reveal the veil of annoyance underneath. “Oh,” she exclaimed, hand pressing to her heart, smile kicking back into overdrive like it was connected to strings. “Oh, of course!” She laughed, glanced to Danielle who was still typing away at the speed of sound. “Who can keep up these days, honestly.” She gave an airy little wave, reaching into her pocket for her phone. “We’ll exchange numbers, then. Get together as soon as we can make it work. We’ll have you over, Danielle makes the best...”

At once, Jasmine's voice dimmed into the shuffling white noise of the city the way a song fades out. Honking horns, the squealing of tires. The endless bustling of foot traffic pressing around their bodies like water in a glass. Eliot’s hand was sliding from Quentin’s shoulder up to the nape of his neck. The midday sun beating down no match for those warm, insistent fingers teasing along the delicate skin, up into Quentin’s hair...

Jasmine’s mouth quirked up in another too-bright smile. She said something, and Quentin could only nod his head, blushing, pretending he could hear it.

—

They hardly talked on their way back to the penthouse. The moment Quentin stepped inside, he made a beeline for the gold chair and all but threw his body into it, slumping down with an indulgent sigh. Eyes on Eliot, hoping he would say something— _anything_ —about the only part of the entire ordeal that mattered now that it was over. Which was, of course, the kiss.

Which was, of course, Quentin’s urgent _need_ to know if the kissing would be happening again. And if so, where. And how long he was going to have to wait.

“I can’t believe you gave her your actual number,” Eliot said, tossing himself onto the sectional, draping one long leg down over the end like the star of his very own baroque masterpiece.

“I was distracted,” Quentin said. “You were—never mind.” Shit. Fuck. “I panicked, okay?”

“No,” Eliot said. “No. Finish your sentence.” He perked up, propped himself up on an elbow. “I was what?”

Quentin let his eyes sweep up the long lines of Eliot’s body. It was stupid how tall he was. It was stupid how _hot_ he was literally all of the time. In his stupid perfectly tailored clothes and his stupid perfectly styled hair and his—what gave him the right to—

“You were touching me.” Quentin’s face began to burn the moment the words left his mouth.

Eliot laughed, flopping flat down onto his back, casting his eyes on the ceiling. “You cannot be—I was touching you, Quentin, because you needed me to sell your bullshit. To someone who was ostensibly your friend in high school. Whose name you couldn’t even remember.”

Quentin groaned, allowing momentary annoyance to sweep in and tamp down his animal-brained desire to cross the distance and straddle Eliot’s lap. “I just—I had to make something up. The words just kind of came out.”

Eliot lifted his head. “I don’t see why you had to—”

“She was trying to get me to go have drinks. I didn’t want to be rude and I—I needed an out. And it wouldn’t—” Quentin narrowed his eyes, a wild, bitter spark of jealousy rising in his throat. “It wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t held us up by flirting with the sentient jawline behind the register.”

Eliot barked out a laugh and sat up. “Oh. Oh, that’s rich, Quentin. That’s really—” An incredulous grin spread over his stupid handsome face. Quentin wanted to punch it into oblivion with his mouth. “I don’t get how someone as into epic fantasy as you are is so bad at making shit up.”

“It—” Something like sadness flared white-hot in Quentin’s chest at once. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, turning his eyes away. “It’s over. Thanks for playing along.”

The silence that grew between them after that was like some living thing. All sharp lines and bony elbows. Quentin, ever the pathetic sap, had to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep the waterworks at bay. He had no reason to be upset, not really. On the surface he understood perfectly well that Eliot owed him nothing. Least of all _enjoyment_ at being dragged into Quentin’s bullshit in the middle of a Midtown sidewalk for the benefit of perfect strangers. Least of all not flirting with every attractive, available boy who happened to cross his path. Least of all pretending, pining, wishing, wanting, waiting...

Still.

Quentin pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through his Instagram feed to give his brain something to do other than sulk. After a while, Eliot got up and went to the bar cart, made himself a drink. 

When he finally spoke, it was like an electric jolt straight to Quentin’s wounded heart. “If you ever do plan on kissing me in front of strangers again, Q,” he said, doing an elegant tut with his elegant hand and tugging the doors to the balcony open, “a little heads-up would be nice. I would have been perfectly fine with putting on a show for your friend had I been given the time to prepare accordingly. You know I hate looking like an amateur in front of people I don’t care about.”

Eliot sauntered out onto the balcony without another word, a warm summer breeze rushing in through the open doorway, swallowing up the space where his body had been. Discordant street sounds, the rhythm of Quentin’s blood. All of it ringing in his ears like a symphony. Trapped in stasis, too hot in his thin button down. A whisper of sweat prickling along the nape of his neck.

Quentin reached up, touched his lips, summoning the memory of Eliot’s mouth opening to his.

—

Weeks passed. Jasmine, as it turned out, was nothing if not persistent. Insistent that they absolutely had _just oh so much catching up to do._ Quentin, in the days following their unfortunate run-in outside the coffee shop, had started to remember her a little. Maybe. He was ninety-percent sure. Some minor Facebook stalking had confirmed they’d gone to the same high school at least, and had graduated one year apart. He was pretty sure she’d actually been Julia’s friend if anything. Even if Julia, during one of their recent FaceTime hangouts, had insisted she’d never met a _Jasmine_ in her life.

Whatever. The important thing was that she’d texted at least a half dozen times since The Coffee Shop Incident, and Quentin was starting to run out of excuses.

“Seriously, Q, just block her number,” Eliot said, pouring himself a steaming mug of coffee from the French press on the counter. It was early. And his hair was soft and wild. And Quentin just wanted to get his fingers in it and maybe never let go. “I understand that your drive to torture yourself once a month like a werewolf that feeds on its own misery is pathological, but I think this thing has probably run its course.”

“What if I didn’t?” Quentin tossed his phone onto the counter. “What if we… took her up on her offer?”

Eliot lifted his mug, an incredulous smile spreading over his face. “Q…”

“El.” Quentin let that one perfect syllable rest between them for a long moment. “It could be fun.”

“Fun to what? Wander into enemy territory pretending to be something we’re not?” Eliot laughed, sipped his coffee. “What would we even talk about? Houseplants? Interest rates? That our landlord may or may not be an actual soul-eating monster?” He gave an airy wave of his hand. “You couldn’t keep up the charade.”

Quentin glared across the distance. “You’re not the only one skilled in the art of bullshit, you know,” he said. “I’ve killed literal gods. I think I could handle a dinner party with Jasmine and her workaholic wife.”

“So it’s a party now?” Eliot set his mug down carefully and sighed. “Seriously, Q, you hate this kind of shit. I don’t understand why—”

“Maybe I’m bored.” _Maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to kiss you again._ “Maybe—maybe you are too.”

“That’s stupid.” Eliot waved him off, producing a cigarette from the silver case he suddenly summoned to his waiting hand, lighting it with the tip of one graceful finger. “Only boring people are bored, Quentin, and I am—”

“You’re boring,” Quentin pushed out, biting at the inside of his lip, only just barely suppressing a laugh. With fifty plus years of memories at his disposal, Quentin hardly had to work at knowing which buttons to press. “You’re so boring now, Eliot, I don’t know how you can stand it.”

Eliot pulled a face, a blush dappling his cheeks in the moment before he turned away. Puffing on his cigarette, mumbling something Quentin couldn’t make out.

“What was that?”

“I said I’ll show you boring, Coldwater.” Eliot wrenched himself back around, aggressively stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. “Tell your friends we’re hosting them here.”

Quentin’s heart did a somersault under his ribs. “I—”

“Friday. I’ll need time to pick up a good vintage and plan a menu.” Eliot was ostensibly talking to Quentin, but his gaze was somewhere distant. “And if they have any food allergies, I’ll need to know ASAP. If they’re—” Eliot visibility shuddered. “Vegans. I’ll try to make it work. I am a magician after all.”

The moment Eliot picked up his coffee and left the kitchen, Quentin started to panic. As easy as Eliot’s buttons were to push, he’d honestly been expecting a little more of a fight. Some pushback for a day or two, an afternoon of endless bickering at least. His singular goal in this whole thing was obviously _kissing Eliot again._ That part was almost certainly a guarantee. Eliot would want to perform for their guests. But the logical part of his brain insisted there had to be a way to mash their mouths together that didn’t involve inviting _strangers_ into their home. An evening spent agonizing in uncomfortable clothes pretending to be a normal person. Dreaming up a make believe life. His face already ached thinking of all the smiling he’d have to do, all the forced conversation. All the _Oh, what have you been up to all these years, Quentin?_ All the, _Oh, you know, not traveling to far off lands and killing gods and dying thirty-nine some odd times, that’s for sure._

Quentin’s chest felt like an overfilled balloon. He reached into the ashtray, and took out Eliot’s half-smoked cigarette, and pressed it between his lips.

—

They’d been living together in the penthouse for months that felt like years. After everything had settled in a post-Monster world, and all of their friends had moved on—to other apartments, other cities, other planets altogether—Quentin and Eliot found themselves trapped in a sort of limbo with each other. 

To any outside observer, they might have appeared to be a couple at first glance. They went on coffee dates and movie dates and dates to the fucking Central Park Zoo. They went on dates they would never call _dates_ but absolutely were by every definition of the word. If you didn’t count the part where they never touched and never talked about anything serious. And they bickered about everything: bad television and who’d left the towel on the bathroom floor and how much pulp was acceptable in fresh squeezed orange juice. Whose turn it was to reset the cleaning enchantments in the kitchen or reinforce the wards. Whose turn it was to collect the magical rent so the Baba Yaga didn’t turn them into breakfast. Just how _easy_ Quentin’s over-easy eggs should be. Who’d left fingerprints on all the wine glasses. How many olives belonged in a dirty martini.

But every night, Quentin would crawl into his bed alone. Lying awake for hours under the covers, imagining the shape of Eliot’s body pressing all along the dip of his spine. Conjuring memories, the stirring phantom of his touch. Waking in the morning so in love he thought it was going to kill him until it didn’t.

Until he had no choice but to try and make it work.

Friday morning came. Eliot had been up before sunrise prepping for their dinner that night. Quentin sat at the island, watching him roll out a long sheet of pastry dough with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Lean muscles in his forearms working like hungry animals. He had a little speck of flour on his nose, and Quentin had to fight the urge to dive across the counter and kiss it clean.

“You know, Jasmine and Danielle won’t be here until seven,” Quentin said, running a finger around the rim of his coffee mug, still trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. “As in seven o’clock tonight. Is all of this really—”

“Yes.” Eliot shot him a hard look, his hands hardly missing a beat as he started folding the thin sheet of dough over on itself. “Do me a favor and fetch the goat cheese from the fridge, will you?”

It went on like that for the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon. Quentin didn’t complain about being relegated to sous chef, or when Eliot barked out orders without even bothering to say _please._ If it meant getting to ogle Eliot’s ass and his forearms and his everything else, Quentin figured it was worth sacrificing that particular bit of his dignity.

Just before seven, they were both freshly showered and dressed. Quentin tried getting away with dressing in a simple button down, but Eliot sent him right back to his bedroom demanding he respect the aesthetic of the evening and put on a jacket.

“A little hypocritical, don’t you think?” Quentin grumbled, magicking the wrinkles out of his lapels. “I mean, _you’re_ not even wearing a jacket, Eliot.”

Eliot shot him a sidelong glance. “It’s not hypocritical,” he said, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt. “It’s entirely intentional, Quentin. I’m cultivating a very specific—” He shook his head, began rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Quentin glared at the line of his throat, the deep V plunge of his open collar shirt. The broad, masculine set of his shoulders. The casual way his vest hung open, revealing just a hint of his suspenders underneath. The way his slacks were slung low on his hips just so, accentuating the perfect curve of his—

“You look like a bartender,” Quentin said, forcing his eyes away before he was tempted to unhinge his jaws and swallow Eliot whole.

“I,” Eliot said very calmly, “look like your caring, attentive partner who’s just spent the last twelve hours of his life in the kitchen preparing your dinner.” He stepped out into Quentin’s line of sight, gesturing down at his feet. “Your very caring and very attentive partner in his very expensive Italian leather shoes.”

Quentin didn’t bother asking what his shoes had to do with not wearing a jacket. And anyway, it wasn’t like it mattered to Quentin what Eliot wore. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit made of sackcloth with rags for shoes, Eliot Waugh would still be the most insanely gorgeous—the most insanely _fuckable_ —person in the multiverse.

The lighting in the penthouse was perfectly moody, the curtains drawn against the late evening summer sun. Enchanted candles burning in every corner as the fireplace danced. The wine was open and aerating in the kitchen, several more bottles of the same ridiculously over-indulgent vintage waiting in the wings should they need them.

Quentin was fairly certain they were going to need them. And maybe some of the harder stuff too.

The table was set. The food set out on the counter had been enchanted to the optimal temperature. There was nothing left to do but wait for their guests to arrive. Which meant, naturally, Quentin had started to spiral. 

“What if we forget—”

Eliot eyed him, firelight flickering over his face. “We won’t.”

“But what if we—”

“You do remember this was your idea.”

“You really should know better than to let me have one of those, El.” Quentin sighed, ran a hand over his hair. His own words burning in his throat before setting them free. “They’re never going to buy that we’re a couple,” he said. _I want you too much for anyone to actually believe that you’re mine,_ he thought.

“Relax.” Eliot touched Quentin’s shoulder, making him jump. “It’s not like they’re expecting me to fuck you over the table before I pour the wine.” He laughed, and Quentin’s knees went all fuzzy, cartilage and bone transforming to dust. “Just leave the bullshit up to me, and everything will be perfectly fine.”

Jasmine and Danielle arrived twenty minutes late, beaming and apologetic and muttering about the traffic. Eliot ushered them inside and took their jackets, hung them in the closet while Quentin stood sweating under his sport coat, looking entirely out of place in the opulence.

“Quentin!” Jasmine greeted him with a full-body hug and a peck on the cheek. “Fabulous place, my god. We clearly have some catching up to do.”

Immediate panic. Quentin drew a breath. “Um—”

Without missing a beat, Eliot swooped in to the rescue. “Ladies,” he said, offering each of them the curve of an elbow, shooting Quentin a sidelong glance. “Come. Sit. I hope you brought your appetites.”

Quentin stood at a distance watching for a long moment. Eliot was so charming it bordered on infuriating. He pulled out the chairs for their guests and got to work at once mixing drinks. Laughing, smiling, effortless in the way his every movement flowed. Like a dancer bounding over an infinite, liquid stage. This was it, Quentin thought—this was Eliot entirely immersed in his element. Putting on a show and making people happy. Purposeful, beautiful. He could have stood there half in shadow watching him glide through the motions of his performance for the rest of his life.

When Quentin finally joined them, he was greeted by Eliot with a kiss to the top of the head. His skin prickling at once with supernova stars. Eliot pulled out his chair, rubbed his shoulders, warm pads of his fingers grazing the skin of Quentin’s neck. It felt so easy, and so real, Quentin allowed himself to believe that it could be. That for a moment, somehow, maybe it suddenly was.

Eliot pulled away, leaving Quentin’s whole body stunned. Distantly, Quentin found himself grateful for the cover the table provided, already so aroused it was stupid.

Eliot served him a gin martini just the way he liked it—four olives, absolutely filthy—moving from table to bar cart and back again like he was dancing on air, hardly missing a beat of conversation with their guests. Quentin didn’t register any of their words. His head a satellite locked in Eliot’s orbit. Eliot touched him on the arm, the shoulder. Sending bolts of lightning from each place his fingers pressed down to the tips of Quentin’s toes.

They finished their drinks. Eliot touched him again. On the side of the neck this time, the same place he’d been known to touch when kissing Quentin on the mouth.

“Darling,” Eliot said, rising to his feet, gathering up their glasses in his big, strong, crazy distracting hands. “A little help in the kitchen?”

Quentin trailed behind him like a moth aching to burn. 

“So, um—” Quentin started the moment they were out of earshot of the table, his heart racing so fast it made his whole body shake. “Have you had time to prepare?”

“Of course I’ve _prepared,_ Quentin.” Eliot gestured to the countless dishes strewn across the island like points on a map. “I’ve been preparing _all week._ What do you think—”

“No.” Quentin stepped into Eliot’s personal space, angling their bodies just so. “I mean—you said, um—” He placed a tentative hand on Eliot’s chest over his shirt. “This is me giving you a heads-up.”

Quentin watched the realization dawning on Eliot’s face. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Quentin could feel two sets of eyes piercing into him from the table, a warm blush staining his cheeks. “So, um—showtime?”

Eliot’s lips quirked in a smile. “Well,” he said, hands coming up to curve around Quentin’s neck with a practiced ease. “It has been far too long since I performed for the benefit of people whose opinions don’t matter.”

Quentin had no time to react. Eliot was leaning down at once and pressing into him. And their mouths were coming together. And then—and then—

Freefall.

Quentin was falling. 

Eliot was kissing him and they were tumbling straight down to the center of the earth. Their bodies fusing together from hip-to-chest. Eliot licked along the seam of his lips, and Quentin opened to him like a doorway. Curtains parting and welcoming the sun. A soft little sound bubbling up in his throat. Everything over-warm, pressing forward until Eliot’s back hit the edge of the counter. Hands pressing into the open front of Eliot’s vest, hungry to get inside his shirt, starved and craving, dreaming of so much blood-warm skin.

And then—and then—

Eliot broke the kiss. 

Quentin’s eyes opened the way a body wakes from a dream. A distant ringing in his ears like church bells tolling out a call to worship. The guests they’d been ostensibly putting on a show for entirely forgotten. Their eyes met, their hands still pressing against each other. Wanting and waiting and—

Quentin held his breath. 

Eliot pulled away.

The moment was over. A candle snuffing out. Quentin tottered backward, running a hand over his hair. Eliot smiled, smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for a tray of something wrapped in approximately one thousand yards of prosciutto. “Help me carry these to the table, my love.”

Fucking—

 _It’s all just pretend,_ Quentin reminded himself. _This is all just make believe. Everything about this night is a show._ Though Jasmine and Danielle were too far away to benefit in the slightest from Eliot saying those words. Still—

Quentin forced himself to breathe, and remember. Following Eliot to the dining room and setting the tray on the table. Eliot filled their glasses with wine, pulled out Quentin’s chair, touching him all over from the moment they settled back down.

Across the table, Jasmine offered one of her thousand-watt grins. “Is it hot in here or is it just you two, my god,” she exclaimed with a waggle of her brows. “The honeymoon phase is the best, I know. Cannot keep your hands off each other, company be damned.” A dreamy sigh slipped out of her mouth. “I bet you’ve christened every corner of this place by now, am I right?”

Quentin’s whole body flushed, and he observed a private moment of silence for all the christening they were very much not doing in their fancy Baba Yaga apartment.

At Jasmine’s side, Danielle—who was clearly poking away at her phone under the table—raised her brows. “What’s that, babe?”

“Oh, nothing, my love.” Jasmine touched her wife’s bare shoulder. “I was just saying—remember when we first met, god. The best days of my life. Not that every day with you isn’t the best, sugarplum.”

Under the table, Quentin felt Eliot’s knee pressing into his thigh. Somehow, their chairs seemed to be migrating closer together. Their eyes met, Eliot smiled. Quentin reached for his wine and gulped down half the glass in one go.

And then—Quentin just kept on drinking. Slamming back one over-full glass after the next. Shamelessly eying the long lines of Eliot’s forearms as he popped the cork on another bottle. Somewhere around course number three, Quentin felt like his head had slipped under the surface of a pool. Brain lighter than champagne bubbles bumping around in his skull. Eliot was still carrying the conversation, masterfully steering it away from any topic that might require Quentin to bullshit too hard and suddenly blow their cover. Watching him work in this way—it was like taking drugs, only better. More intoxicating than wine or dirty martinis or anything he’d ever swiped from Hoberman’s stash. 

It was like mainlining desire straight into the center of his heart.

“So, Quentin,” Jasmine said, immediately steering his thoughts away from groping Eliot’s thigh under the table. “You have to tell me where you met this master chef bombshell babe of yours.”

Eliot reached over, gave his hand a fleeting touch, and Quentin sucked in a breath, reaching for his wine. “Um—” He took a swig, set down the glass. “Grad school.”

Easy enough, not actually a lie. Quentin reached for Eliot’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Jasmine’s face lit up at that. “Harvard? Yale? Danielle and I met at Columbia and—” She made a sound that was halfway between a moan and a sigh. “Love at first sight. I haven’t had eyes for anyone since. Well—clearly you understand what I’m talking about.”

Quentin’s heartbeat fluttered. Eliot made no effort to pull his hand away. Slowly, Quentin started lacing their fingers together. Bodies stitching together at the palms. Eliot tensed for a fraction of a second, then relaxed. Jasmine said something that Quentin didn’t hear. Eliot said something back in that airy, effortless way of his. The conversation carried on for a very long time, the topic of Quentin and Eliot’s meet cute entirely forgotten.

Quentin just kept drinking and drinking and holding Eliot’s hand. It went on like that for the rest of the night. Stuffing themselves silly with course after course of Eliot’s artfully crafted delicacies, half of which Quentin couldn’t even hope to name. Every second Eliot was at his side, they were touching. Under the table where the light didn’t reach. Quentin wondered, in the drunken fog of his mind, if a hidden touch could be considered performance by any definition of the word. If, somehow, Eliot’s grounding fingers were really just another part of the show.

Dessert was served and devoured. Suddenly, the night had come to an end. Quentin tottered away from the table with the whole world bending sideways. They said their easy goodbyes to their stranger-friends. Hugs and kisses on the cheek. Offered promises to get together soon Quentin had no intention of actually keeping.

The curtain lowered, the performance over. The theatre shuttered, playbills scattered to the wind. Eliot shut the door and pressed himself back against it. “Well, that was—”

Quentin was on him at once. Pushing his entire body into Eliot’s, shoving Eliot firmly back against the door. Going up on his toes, seeking Eliot’s mouth, the heat of him, the sweetness of his wine-stained lips.

Eliot’s whole body went stiff, lips resisting the sudden intrusion and then, all at once—relenting. Allowing himself to be kissed. Allowing Quentin to kiss him. Fumbling hands, groping at the buttons of Eliot’s shirt. It took a long moment for Quentin to remember he was a magician. Another long moment still for his drunken, shaky hand to perform a tut and magic Eliot’s shirt part way open.

Quentin’s mouth immediately latched onto Eliot’s collarbone.

Eliot touched Quentin’s shoulders, started pushing him back. “Q, Q—hey. Um—”

“Shut up,” Quentin grumbled, mouthing at Eliot’s throat, tugging at the straps of his suspenders, the waistband of his slacks. “Get these stupid things off.”

“Quentin, what are you—”

“I’m trying to suck your dick.” He let a drunken laugh fall out of his mouth. “And if you would just—if you would just help me—”

Eliot took Quentin by the wrists and pried his hands away. “Q. You’re drunk.”

“So what? I wanna suck your dick when I’m sober literally all of the time.” He laughed again, taking a breath to steady himself, pressing his hands to Eliot’s bare chest. “It doesn’t—this doesn’t have to be serious, okay? It’s all pretend, remember? Make believe blow jobs are totally a thing.”

“Q.” Eliot took him by the arms and started moving their bodies away from the door. “Come on just—I don’t wanna have to carry you up to bed if you fall over.”

Quentin shoved Eliot’s hands away. “I’m not going to fall over,” he said, nearly falling over. “I thought you didn’t wanna be boring.”

“Q.”

“El.”

Eliot gave him a hard look. Stupid perfect hands on his stupid perfect hips. “I’m not taking advantage of you while you’re drunk, okay, I—”

A laugh stuttered out of Quentin’s chest. “Take advantage—oh my god. You really think I’m—I’m just some delicate little straight boy who’s gonna break the moment you put your dick inside me, don’t you?”

“I never said—” Eliot pushed out a sigh with his entire chest. “We agreed—” He began again very carefully. “Quentin, we agreed… we were putting on a show for your not-actually-friends. That’s it. That was the point of this entire fucking night.”

Quentin scoffed. “That’s. Boring.”

“Yeah, well—” Eliot shrugged, throwing his hands up. “Maybe I like being boring with you.”

Quentin’s drunken brain lagged a thousand paces behind, trying to process what that was even supposed to _mean_ as Eliot pushed past him and made a beeline for the sofa.

“What the fuck are you—” Quentin, by some miracle, got his body working long enough to follow. Tossing himself down next to Eliot, struggling to read his impossible expression through the haze. “I don’t know what you—”

“I don’t wanna fuck it up,” Eliot said, so quietly Quentin could only just barely make out the words.

Quentin frowned at him intensely. “Okay, now you’re really confusing the shit out of me, El.”

“I’ve been meaning to—” Eliot shook his head, gazing straight ahead at the curtains stretching from the windows like ghosts. “For a long time, I—” He started and stopped again. “What we have right now is so good, Q. It’s so fucking good, and I—I can’t risk—”

It took all of his focus, but Quentin got his legs up under himself and knelt at Eliot’s side there on the sofa. “El…” He touched Eliot’s shoulder very softly. “El. You’re not really making a lot of sense right now. I mean, I am really, really drunk—”

“Our stupid movie nights.” A smile tugged at Eliot’s pretty mouth. “I love watching stupid movies with you. Bad TV, arguing about—fucking scented candles. Where the mustard should go in the fridge.”

“Eliot.” Quentin said the name with his entire chest, touched the fevered skin of Eliot’s neck. “Hey…”

“It’s boring.” Eliot let out a laugh that was happy and sad all at once, and turned to face Quentin head-on. “It’s so fucking boring, Q.” He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. “But I think—I think I could be happy staying in and being boring with you until my ass sags down to the floor.”

It was finally dawning on Quentin’s drunken brain. Exactly what Eliot was saying. But for a moment, all he could allow himself to do was laugh. “To be fair, I’ve seen your old man ass and, gotta say—” He thumbed at Eliot’s blushing cheek. “Not as saggy as I’d imagined it was going to be.”

Eliot’s whole face lit up with a grin that quickly faded. “Yeah,” he said, gazing down at his own hands folded in his lap. “Um, so—”

“Hey, no—look.” Quentin crawled into Eliot’s lap without thinking, straddling his thighs, touching his face. “We don’t have to talk. It’s okay, Um—we can just—” He shook his head, offering a smile. “Our lives can still be just as boring if you let me blow you.”

“Q.” Eliot’s hands rested against Quentin’s hips like they were carved to fit together.

“El.” Quentin got his hands in Eliot’s curls, letting the moment linger. “You aren’t going to fuck it up.”

Eliot shut his eyes, saying nothing for a long moment. Letting Quentin touch him, letting their bodies settle against one another in all that easy silence. “What if we…” He opened his eyes, meeting Quentin’s gaze. “What if we did that. Just, um… not right now?”

“Me… blowing you?”

“Yes,” Eliot said, one corner of his mouth curling upward. “And… other stuff? But um, we need to… talk. I think. About a metric fuckton of shit. When we’re sober.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes, letting his hands come to rest on Eliot’s shoulders. “Is this where I start to worry that you’ve been body-snatched? Again...”

“This is where I say…” Eliot gave a little tilt of his head. “I am very open to having all of the creative, athletic, borderline freaky-weird sex you want to have, Quentin, but we…” He let out a decadent sigh. “We have to take that part slow. If it’s ever going to happen at all.”

Quentin let out a playful groan with his entire chest. “That does sound… exceptionally boring,” he said. “The taking it slow part. Not the freaky-weird sex. Just so we’re clear.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said with a quirk of his brow. “Yeah, it really does.”

“Does, um—” Quentin ducked his head, pressing his hands to Eliot’s chest. “Does being boring and taking it slow mean I can’t sleep in your bed tonight?”

When Quentin raised his eyes, Eliot was smiling. “Well,” he said, hands ever-so-slightly finding the curve of Quentin’s ass through his slacks. “That depends. What are the odds you’ll be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

Quentin hummed, and pressed forward, ghosting his mouth over Eliot’s mouth. “That depends,” he said. “Does keeping my hands to myself mean you’re not going to kiss me?”

Eliot’s expression went all soft and hazy in the dim light. “That… depends,” he said very softly. “How boring do you like your kisses to be?”

“Oh,” Quentin teased with a little shake of his head. “So boring, El. I just—I wanna be so bored with you. Like, you just—you kiss me and then I fall asleep with my hands above the covers.”

Eliot’s lips twitched as he leaned forward, and kissed the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Then come closer, sweetheart,” he said. “And let me bore you right out of your skull.”


End file.
